


Rifts And Ripples

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AUs, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Ideas ideas ideas which were supposed to be fics in their own right, R plus L equals J, idk - Freeform, too much internet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-10-02 06:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 13
Words: 18,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10211642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: AUs collection





	1. AU1v1

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“We have to trust that they will arrive in time.” Lyanna looked up at the sound of her father’s voice. Rickard Stark had not seen her though. He continued to speak to the measter. “Arryn comes with Tully men as well. Not to mention our own riders yet number enough to hold off even the fiercest of attacks.”_

_“Husband,” her lady mother cut in. She moved around Lyanna. “Is there news?” Other than the one they’d just heard? Lyanna cast a doubtful glance towards her younger brother. He was, innocently enough, sleeping. How he could do that in such circumstances was beyond her._

_“Not the kind one would hope for.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Rhaegar had not expected that she would accept. “Pray forgive me.” One mustn’t look too shocked after have made a perfectly acceptable offer and having it accepted. “You are certain?” Well, he had made her the offer. “I would not wish you to feel–“_ **

**_She shook her head. “I do believe I feel nothing but honoured, Your Grace.” Spoken in the frosty tone of a Northerner noblewoman. With how many there were about, one would know. “I would be very pleased to be your bride.” And he would be repaying his debt._ **

**_“All’s well that ends well.” She nodded and dared a smile. Progress._ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Butterfly,” Jon squealed, pointing towards the cluster of flowers. His mother, whose eyes had been fixed somewhere nearer his father, turned to face him. He grinned excitedly and repeated the designated name for his grand find. “Butterfly, mother.”

“A butterfly? Where?” Tottering ahead, he brought the both of them nearer to the collection of summery colours strewn about the grassland. But his approach had been marked by the butterfly as well. And it spread its wings, taking off upon the wind’s waves.

“How does the butterfly fly?” He reached for one of the flowers.

“With its wings?” Jon held the flower up to her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Having clambered high upon his lap, Lyanna regarded her father with utmost solemnity. “I can fight as well,” she said. “I want to protect my home too. Like Brandon.” Like Ned would as soon as he arrived. “Benjen is might be too young. I am not.”_

_He’d laughed when last she asked to be given a sword like her brothers. He was not laughing as he withdrew a small dagger from his belt. “Nay. I want you to protect your mother and brother. Can you do that for me?” Lyanna nodded, reaching for the weapon. “Promise you will stick by them.”_

_“I promise.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Brandon Stark was helping his brother up, a grin serving for his crowning. “Your Grace needn’t go easy on her.” He couldn’t necessarily grab at her braid and expect she might stumble along without a complaint. Only that she never told him anything._ **

**_“Then what am I supposed to do?” The brothers shared a look. He sighed. “If she is doing this because of Winterfell–“_ **

**_“Winterfell might well be one of the main concerns she considered when accepting,” the younger wolf allowed, “but as to feeling forced into it, nay. Who is there to force her? She would not listen even if someone tried.”_ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Awfully fond of that dagger, he is, little mite,” his father was saying to his mother. Jon kept his pretence of being asleep. Settled against his mother’s side, he was rather comfortable. “Best not allow him such easy access to it though.”

She laughed. He liked it when she laughed. “There is naught easy about it. I wasn’t much older when I had my first dagger.”

“I hope he does not have use of it for a long, long time. I hope you do not either.”

He felt his mother’s hand move atop his head, fingers carding gently through his hair.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The beam creaked under the strain of holding back what was undoubtedly a flood of bodies. Lyanna huddled closer to her mother, dagger held tightly in hopes of averting the danger. Has she half the sense of her parents, she would have known a flimsy danger offered precious little by way of protection._

_“When is father coming back?” her brother whimpered. He was still pressed to the wall, mother standing shield between him and whatever was trying to get in. “I don’t like this anymore.”_

_“Soon, sweetling,” their mother assured. “You need but a drop of patience.”_

_A groan of distress erupted from the wood which splintered._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_“But Your Grace, I am a Stark. A cloak changes little, does it not?” Astonished at the heat behind the words, Rhaegar slowed his steed, dropping into a light canter. He looked her over, wind-blown hair strands framing her face, eyes wide and searching, her mouth slightly pinched at the ends._ **

**_“Do you think you will ever not be one?” He wasn’t asking, nor had he asked that she renounce her kin._ **

**_“You cannot pull the North out of me.”_ **

**_“I’m not trying to.”_ **

**_“Aren’t you?”_ **

**_He turned his face away from her and stabbed his heels into the horse’s flanks. The beast flew into a gallop._ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bending his neck, head thrown back, Jon gazed up at his father, more than enthralled with the possibility that he might get to lead a horse. A first for him. And his father’s warhorse. The ill-tempered beast was rarely the beneficiary of affectionate awe. In fact his mother was leading her own horse closer and closer yet. “This is much too fast, Your Grace.”

“I never took you for a craven,” his father answered. “Jon, grip those reins tighter. You wouldn’t want to fall off now, would you?”  

“Nay.” His fingers curled around the reins, as per the instructions received.

“Rhaegar. This is too fast.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_More brawn than brain the swarming mass of enemies could fall prey to trickery. Lyanna had barely managed to escape the vicious grasp of one and grab for her brother and all with a small dose of said trickery. “Grab the torch,” she yelled at her brother who was struggling to reach the flickering light._

_Fire was the only thing that could save them. She yelled at one of the lumbering corpses and danced out of the way as soon as it’s approached. “You’ll have to do better.” Would that her taunt never inspired any rising awareness in the horde though._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Benejn was sitting on the mound of hay, eyes on his brothers. The first of the two, still engaged in brutal contest, had managed to trap himself into a corner. “It is not for me to say what my sister thinks. That she can tell you with her own mouth. What I do know is that she is trying.”_ **

**_The young man cleared his throat. “I am trying as well.” Might be he should just let her be. After all, why force matters, when she seemed tolerably settled._ **

**_“Marriage is a bit like combat training to my mind. There is a lot of trying and a lot of failure until the swing of the sword is just right and the knight’s balance atop a horse has been achieved. That’s what father claimed anyway.”_**  

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“How big is Winterfell?” he questions. “This big?” Spreading his arms out, Jon attempted to gauge the correct length such a keep might hold. His father seemed to consider the matter. “Or might be this big?” Folding his arms somewhat inwards he made a second attempt at estimation.

“Let us see. I have not seen Winterfell in some years, but I think it was this big,” his father encompassed a larger swath of space between his outstretched arms. “What do you think, wife?”

Mother made a thoughtful sound in the back of her throat. “Do you know, I do not rightly recall. But, Jon dear, you shall find out soon enough.”

“I want to know now though.”

 

 

 

 

 

  

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The flesh broke with a crackle, oozing blood and bone splinters. Lyanna kicked at the fallen figure, forcing Benjen to jump along with her. “Come on, stupid; mother cannot hold them off forever.”_

_“I know that.” His answer was barely audible. She would have turned to glance at him, but Lyanna feared she needed both eyes if they were to reach the crypts in one, or rather two complete pieces. Not that she could fathom a possible future where they had not._

_“Duck,” she cried out when a door opened, releasing upon them a fur covered creature. Out of all the things. Lyanna slammed her torch against it._

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

**_Her head rested against his shoulder, cheek pressed against his own covered flesh. In such rare moments, he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. “Are you going to say anything?” He was feeling rather drowsy himself. It had to be the continual rain pouring without._ **

**_“I may never be quite as much a Targaryen as you would wish of me,” she finally spoke, her fingers curling against his chest. “Nevertheless, I am a bit more a Targaryen now than I was this morn.” He glanced down at her with curiosity. “The Grand Master confirmed it.”_ **

**_And the pitter-patter of rain continued to beat steadily as their fingers laced together._ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

_*_

 

 

 

 

 

 

“The crypts still haven’t been fully restored,” Uncle Brandon was explaining to his mother as father ushered him to the begging on a row of statues. “The mason managed to salvage some of the pieces which had fallen down.”

“To be fair, Benjen pushed the first one. The important thing is that it held.” He heard her footsteps approaching.

“Which Brandon is this one?” father asked, wrapping an arm around mother’s waist.

“I have had to learn every Targaryen’s name between this moment and Aegon’s Conquest. How can you not recall as much in return?”

“Age, dear wife. I am no longer a young man.”

“I can remember the names, mother,” Jon piped in to much joy from his mother.   

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't even. Enjoy these unrelated, mostly, AU sketches. They may or may not be developed into something digestible if there's any interest (although if ppl haven't explored every variation possible, I'd be surprised). 
> 
> Anyway. All I'm imagining now is Jon being like:
> 
>  


	2. AU1v2

 

 

 

 

 

 

_The jingle of bells chanted a cheerful melody. Against the doorframe Old Nan had remained in her state of disbelief. She kept her hands clenched upon the trencher, her mouth a grim little line. Had Lyanna not been paying her mind, she might have missed the way the old woman’s eyes narrowed/ “Master Ben, up to no good again, I see.” Lyanna’s gaze returned to her mending for all of a couple of drawn-out heartbeats. “’Tis not enough that the leg has been thoroughly abused. Now you must do yourself one better and smash your head open. Is that it?”_

_“Nan, I am not trying to smash my head open. I’ve Lyanna for that,” her brother answered smartly, dragging his weight along the wall. That allowed his some movement. Not enough to see him out of bed though. “Now am I to have some food, or are we waiting for summer to roll by?”_

_“Demanding little wretch,” the woman accused, moving within the chamber. “And you, my lady, have you no care for your brother’s well-being? He could have fallen flat on his face, broken all his teeth.”_

_“I doubt he has the power to move more than he has,” she answered shortly, keeping her voice at a low level. “As for his teeth, or face, or head, having routinely attempted to improve his charm, I can attest to there being no remedy to his current state.” At Benjen’s protest she stuck her tongue out at him. “All he needs to do is sit in bed and benefit from a few kind words every now and again, and it will greatly improve him.”_

_“Words which you are clearly unable to provide. I have been asking you about my horse for the past hour and you’ve managed to give me is a half-mumbled reply that you’ve no idea how the horse is.” He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the headboard. “And you wonder why I am in such foul temper.”_

_“I do not care about your temper, to be perfectly honest, Ben dear. If you’ve not noticed, allow me to explain; I am busy. I have mending to do. Since we are no longer surrounded by servants, what with most fleeing south of the Neck, I am to do such things as mending and sewing and seeing to the kitchens. You, on the other hand, are to mind your leg and try not to make the fracture worse than it already is.”_

_“Always with that tone. You are a pest. One cannot get along with you for more than a few moments at a time.” Nan chuckled and brought the tray to him, settling it on his lap._

_“Cheer up, brother, next time you get your foot caught in some unholy trap, you will know exactly how long recovery takes.” He glowered at the feigned optimism and shoved a chunk of meet in his mouth. “And do try to chew properly. Wouldn’t want you choking on your food again.”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jon was crawling through the undergrowth, gripping fistfuls of greenery, tearing roots and whatnot. The leaves dashed to the ground despite his frantic attempts to stop their descent. Her babe let out a low whine. She would have laughed had she not been in the middle of regaining her balance. Which balance she lost a moment later due to her attention focusing on the child and the crushing defeat he’d suffered in his mission.

As expected of a boy in his situation, wit and charm were promptly dismissed in favour of a long, hearty wail. If she did not know any better Lyanna would have sworn the babe knew such actions were as swift to grab her attention as an arrow heading straight for one’s head would be for a soldier on the battlefield. Shaking his fist, remnants of his find stuck between his fingers, Jon called her over, voice growing in pitch with every heartbeat stretching out between them.

“What’s the matter?” she asked gently, picking the squalling infant up and resting him upon her knee. Jon promptly curled his fingers into her collar and began tugging, staining the cloth with dirt. “AIs the grass not to your liking? Here now, let mother see what it is that you’ve found.”

His trove contained a few small blue flowers along with some wisps of grass. His wailing slowly melted into light sniffles as his eyes focused on her face. “These are very pretty flowers. We could pick up some more and make a grown. Would you like that?” He released the collar and swiped his hand downwards, slapping it just underneath her breast. A coo left his lips. “A crown,” Lyanna explained, not quite certain if she’d managed to hide her wince. “A very pretty crown.” At least before he grew up and no longer wished to allow her such liberties as picking flowers together and making crowns. “Would you like that?”

His squeal was promptly taken to mean an approval. Thus Lyanna moved him against her shoulder before shifting the both of them so the flowers were easily reached. Jon’s contribution thereafter boiled down to grabbing flower-crows and tugging with all force he was capable of mustering. In turn, his opponents put up a flimsy resistance, resulting in an easy victory for the child. Lyanna kissed his cheek while she plucked a few flowers of her own, dumping them in her lap. Her son simply allowed his first few catches to fall around them.

“Nay, Jon. Put the flowers in mother’s lap,” she instructed gently, guiding his fist. Jon dropped the weight of his gatherings and then proceeded to clump some more flowers in a tight bunch. These ones too were carelessly thrown away when she declined to intervene, curious if her son would follow her instructions.

“What did I say about the flowers? What did I say?” The babe glanced up at her face, bringing his hand to her chin. The skin was slightly moist. “Put the flowers in mother’s lap, aye?” She guided his hand once more.     

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Maester Walys shook the excess ink off the tip of his quill. “He was rather clear in his instructions, my lady.” The man gave her one of those looks, the ones which never failed to bring her blood to a roaring boil._

_“And I did not challenge his decree,” she answered. “I merely challenged the validity of his demands given we are already under considerable strain. We cannot house and feed so many men for such a long period of time.”_

_“If it were left solely to our competence on such scores, I’ve no doubt you would be in the right. There is however another interesting fact your father chose to share in his letter. Since I have been expressly forbidden from allowing you to view it, my lady, I can only relate that my lord is looking into gaining further Southron support. And his endeavours seem to have paid off. Yet again.”_

_“Well, I suppose it is very lucky that I am yet available to facilitate a smooth path.” She sighed. Not that manner of sigh some of her sisters-in-arms used when faced with a peculiar dictate meant to ensure the perpetuity of their well-established order. She couldn’t truly afford to; not with current concerns hard at work. Instead, she had substituted for that particular dissatisfaction a milder version concerned mostly with a lack of forewarning. “And can you tell me who it is I am accept with open arms?”_

_“Forsooth. I was strongly advised to keep the particulars hidden only. He is the eldest son of His Grace, Prince Aerys. You recall, of course, that it was the man’s falling out with the King which saw the son sent to the Wall.”_

_“I suppose this all hinges on some particular demands from my presumptive good-father.” Aerys Targaryen was notorious for two things, the first being that he’d somehow managed, even under considerable duress from the unpleasantness brought about by his grandfather’s and father’s failures, to bring Summerhall back to prosperity; the second act revolved around his somewhat ambivalent attitude towards the struggles of the North against an invading force from beyond the Wall. He’d been the first man in recent memory to have spoken for a unified grand army in response to foreign aggression. Thus it had also fallen to him to set an example. Which he had; albeit not by going off to war himself. But then who could blame him. Facing off against hordes of the undead was very likely a daunting prospect._

_Still, the Wall benefitted from the manpower sent its way and the guarding had increased its effectiveness._

_“I believe your father wishes to explain himself.” She nodded. Not that there was much need of an explanation. Bad enough that young children were being stolen away from their cribs and offered as sacrifice to those monsters. A marriage was hardly comparable and if beneficial, the profits would far surpass the costs._

_“As long as the terms are acceptable.” Which by that point, any terms were welcome. Any at all._

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her son twisted this way and that, reaching for one of the light-beams streaming through the lancets. Given it remained elusively high above the both of them, he was thwarted in his attempt to capture the light. Despite the insurmountable nature of such a defeat, to Jon it signified as much as a footnote in a maester’s tome of history might. He kept trying.

“Stubborn little thing,” her brother commented, the easy smile upon his lips. She got the sense he was more amused at her expense rather than at the boy’s antics. “I wonder where he gets that from.”

“He favours his grandfather.” As to which grandfather that was, Lyanna decided it made little matter. Both of them were or had been stubborn to the last, unwilling to give an inch and thoroughly infuriating in their high-handedness. Although one supposed that good attention alleviated some of the chagrin one felt at being ordered about.

“Now that’s an evasive answer if I’ve ever heard one.” Ned pushed a crumpled cloth into his nephew’s hands. Jon proceeded to pull it to his face and gnaw on the seams. “Look at him. He’ll be swinging a sword soon enough.”

“I should think he would need to walk first before we can give him a shield and weapon.” Her arms tightened their hold around the boy. “Cloths and flowers and grass will have to do for now.” The babe made a small sound in the back of his throat, his tussle with the crumpled cloth gaining fervour. “Now tell me about my husband.”

“Your husband is doing well, sweet sister.” She raised one eyebrow at the rather lacking response. “He’s kept his head thus far, both metaphorically and literally. You may be glad to hear that he retains all his fingers and teeth and most importantly his hair. As I understand it that last part is the most important part.”

“You devil!” The lack of heat behind her accusation should have clued him in. “It’s the teeth that’s the most important, obviously.” The fingers she could do without. Although to be fair, they were fairly useful. “I would feel forced to not embarrass the poor man and eat my food mashed for his sake.”

“That is an issue to take up with your heart,” Ned pointed out, taking hold of one of the cloth’s corner. He tugged on it gently. Jon protested and tugged back. “That’s a strong clutch. Are you certain he is not ready yet? We always need more men.”

“You already have my man. And one’s all I am willing to give.” She bounced Jon from one knee to the other and glanced down at him. All she could see was the gently curling strands flying whichever way. “Jon dearling, do not pull so hard. You will tear it.”

“I think I already hear the cloth tearing.” She clucked her tongue and gave Ned a dry look. “Can you not hear it?”

Jon gazed up at her then, cloth still held tightly between his recently risen teeth.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"And you have served for, what would that be, six years, would it not?” She had to admit, it was more than a tad awkward to be walking her father’s gardens with this man; a stranger for all intents and purposes._

_“Indeed.” And he was not at all helping._

_Lyanna wondered if she ought to push for another subject. Might be it would be nice to simply allow the silence to linger. He did not seem very interested in having any sort of conversation beyond answering her. With that in mind, she pressed her lips together, forcing the words back down her throat. Raising her eyes towards the sky, she tracked the movement of a far, round cloud heading towards an impressive goliath; likely a congregation born out of excessive cramming together._

_“Were you told to walk on eggshells around me, my lady?” Her head snapped, face veering in his direction. The peculiar thing about men coming back from the Wall was that they tended to stare right into one’s soul._

_“I don’t know you.” Having blurted the words out, doing an about-turn was not an option. “There are only so many things to be spoken about with a stranger.” He cocked his head to the side, as though awaiting even further clarification._

_“I am afraid there will be terribly little time to do so at any rate.” He was not incorrect. Nor precisely, the few days they were to spend as a newly wedded couple were a paltry length of time if one wished to learn one’s spouse, as it were._

_“But if I do not even try, then what do we have?” A soft sigh spilled past her lips. “The consolation of a vague possibility you might die out there? That is no way to live. Even if it is very little I can garner, I would rather have that, and whatever admiration comes from it then be left a bitter husk.”_

_“It is an assumption on your part that there is anything to admire.” Finally. Obtaining words from him was like drawing water from stone._

_“I choose to think it is not. You had ample opportunity in six years to grow tired of the war effort and retreat back to Summerhall. You did not. There was more than enough incentive, I’d wager, to flee, like so many have done, instead of fighting. And still, you have remained. That at least speaks of determination and courage. You see, already two qualities to admire.”_

_He offered a smile. The cold sort that never quite reached the eyes. As though he was indulging a child. “You are an optimist, my lady.” His eyes kept hers in tight lock. “My purpose in remaining has to do with the benefits of a hypothetical victory. I am a knight.”_

_“Good. A man with a sense of purpose and armed with grit. You will not dissuade me, Your Grace. I am determined.”_

_“But why?” It felt good to have the upper hand._

_“For my own benefit, same as you.” She smiled. “The dices have already been cast. Our course is set. Why not reach for the most satisfactory outcome?”_

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU-concept
> 
> v-variation
> 
> p-part
> 
> Basically how every Jon fan sees kid!Jon:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Probably. I don't know. I'm just so happy with the newest developments in art today that I'm just going to celebrate. So enjoy your read. And maybe leave me a word or two. Or don't. lel. I'll be off now.


	3. AU2v1-repost (sketeton)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lyanna doesn't really know what to do with the broken man on her doorstep. She invites him in, despite the fact that she doesn't really know him. Not anymore. In another life they could have been dancing together at a glamorous party. But now she can only see the shadows lurking in his eyes and the strange gauntness of his face. He's always been slender though.

"You're back." The observation is laced with surprise. So many good men have not come back. But he has. She takes his hand in hers more out of habit than genuine desire. One is supposed to be affectionate towards one's just returned husband.

He looks down at their entwined fingers. "I promised I would."

* * *

She wakes up to the sound of moaning. It is not pleasure she detects though. The sounds she hears are of agony. Lyanna rises slowly and turns towards her husband. Sweat is running down his skin. His hand spasms.

A scream trickles past his lips and his eyes open quite suddenly, light and unseeing. He jumps forward, half jumping off the bed, breathing hard. Confusion and fear mingle in his face and Lyanna feels her heart breaking. She touches his hand, soft and tentative. They exchange a couple of looks and she pulls him back under the covers, twining her arms around him, resting her head against his shoulder.

She drifts to sleep to the lullaby of him drawing breath.

* * *

They fall into a comfortable routine after the first few days. Lyanna didn't know what she expected, but this is not it. But she puts jam on the toast and he makes the tea – she finds that coffee doesn't agree with him either.

Living with him is almost like having a ghost around. He doesn't talk much, so she finds herself filling the long silences that descend between them. He doesn't move around much, so she finds different pretexts to get him out of the house. He is not the man she remembers, but she has tied herself to him and nothing will tear her away.

"Come help me with the roses," she tells him, smiling benevolently when he puts the newspaper down.

* * *

Lyanna has been touched just once. On her wedding night. She was young and scared, unsure of herself and her husband, for all she liked him. So the moment her husband touches her waist beneath the thick covers as she pretends to sleep, Lyanna freezes. Her breath catches and her eyes open involuntarily.

He is looking at her with a peculiar expression. Braving any instinct of retreat, she takes his face between her palms and places her lips against his, holding them together. Her husband takes it well.

Soon she finds herself settled under his weight, fingers running over still protruding ribs. Wet heat pools between her legs as his mouth opens against her closed lips. He coaxes her in a kiss that is damp and exciting.

* * *

He smiles in the morning light and the sight of it takes her breath away. This might be a sign that he is mending. Lyanna kisses the beginning of a scar that runs down his chest. It looks horrifying in the daylight. She doesn't ask about it, but her fingers trace the pattern gently. What have they done to her husband?

They make love again, lazily. She breathes in his scent and runs her fingers through his tangles curls. Something blooms inside her heart when he clutches her hand and spills himself inside of her. She murmurs in his hair, words of praise and love.

"Don't leave me again," she pleads in a moment of incoherency.

"Never," he declares passionately.

* * *

"I want-" he begins but never manages to finish as the plates crash to the floor with a deafening sound. Lyanna barely has time to voice her surprise before she finds herself on the floor, pinned between him and the ground. His body curls protectively around hers and his breathing grows laboured.

Inexplicably tears start pouring out of her eyes. Her breathing matching his, she wraps him in her arms, shushing his broken sobs and kissing his damp cheeks. "What have they done to you?" The question rings through the silence.

He doesn't answer. Instead he lifts himself off of her and hurries out the door. Lyanna decides against chasing him. She picks up the shards on the floor and throws them in the waste bin.

* * *

When he returns he has only apologies on his lips. Lyanna brushes those away, insisting that he doesn't have to say such things to her. On some level she understands that the scars run deeper than the naked eye can see.

They share the loveseat and she reads him some poetry. He used to like poetry. His head rests against her shoulder and the burden burns itself against her skin. She loves having him this close. She loves the way his fingers run across her thigh, absently drawing patterns against the wool of her skirt. She loves feeling his breath crash against her, warm and alive and real.

Many men didn't come back. But her husband did, and Lyanna thanks the gods daily for that.

* * *

Tangled in a mess of limbs and sweat, skin sticking to his, Lyanna brushes her lips to his cheek. "Talk to me."

"I don't know what to say to you. I have no pretty words left," he admits finally. Lyanna draws tighter against him. "I wish I did."

"I don't need pretty words," she insists. "I need my husband. I want my husband."

"I am not him," he replies and in that moment all the ghosts of the past bear down upon them.

"You are Rhaegar, the man I married." Saying his name after all this time bring her another sort of relief. Her answer is absolute. "I love you. Pretty words or no words, scars or not, I love you."

"So do I," he responds.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Repost. Idgaf if you've read it before. So you don't need to point out if you have; I still won't care. Because I'm, you know, a cunt...
> 
> Off to drink some bleach.


	4. AU3v1 (ro)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ea încă se zgâia la el cu ochii-i mari. Avea o cautatură aspră, deşi pe chipu-i se citea o fărâmă de interes. „Cum aşa?” făcu el, prinzând a-i citi reacţia usor dispreţuitoare. „Adica tu...” se opri aici pentru a se asigura că nu sunt urmăriţi din priviri. „Adica tu i-ai spus acelui om că vrei să rămâi aici?” Aici, pe muntele acesta blesetemat.

„De ce nu?” Fata-şi propti bărbia-n palmă, degetele-i trăgând din când în când un fir de aţă desprins dintr-o floare brodată în coltul drept al batistei ei. „Eu nu mă grăbesc.” Ȋi dărui un zâmbet ştrengăresc. „Şi apoi şi la urma urmei, nu sunt eu datoare familiei mele să mă fac bine şi să le răsplatesc bunătatea?”

„Aici nu poate să fie vorba despre aşa ceva,” protestă Rhaegar încetişor. „Familia-i datoare a-şi proteja copii.”

Ea ridică din umeri, acelaşi zâmbet încremenit pe buze-i. „Poate ai şi tu partea ta de dreptate.” De parcă dreptatea o poţi împărţi aşa cum vrei.

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

„Ete na, am ajuns să o vad şi pe asta,” Lyanna râse, trăgând pătura mai sus. „Om bătrân şi fără minte.” Cu toate acestea sclipirea din ochii ei licări în continuare. „Degeaba încerci să mă convingi, eu astfel de lucruri nu pot crede.”

„Aha! Eşti unul din acei oameni,” spuse el, intrigat de vehemenţa tinerei, „care este ancorat în realitatea emprircă.” Dădu ea din cap a confirmare şi murmură ceva. „Explică-mi şi mie atunci, ce are să fie când vom pleca?”

Lyanna păru puţin surprinsă. Se fâţâi, poate şi pentru a trage de timp. „Şi tu cu întrebări din acestea. Sunt eu oare în măsură să spun? Doar asta ştiu, corpul putrezeşte şi totul dispare. Azvârlit în neant.”

„Ȋn neant,” Rhaegar îngână. „Şi ce crezi, neantul îţi va alunga suferinţele?”

„Orice altă variantă le-ar amplifica.”    

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

“Crezi oare că este ceva acolo, ceva care ne protejează, ne îndrumă, ne aşteaptă?” Rhaegar dădu din cap, ţinâdu-i înca mâna în mâna sa. „Cât de naiv poate sa fie omul.” Lyanna răsuflă, îngândurarea citindu-i-se pe chip. „Şi eu ca proasta chiar pe tine te-am găsit.”

„Draga mea, daca tu nu mă placi, eu tot te plac. Chair şi nihilistă cum eşti.” Ea îşi ridică ochii înspre ai lui. „Nu mă privi aşa.”

„Aşa cum?”

„De parcă...”

„De parcă?”

„De parcă am spus ceva demn de admiraţie. Oi fi eu mai naiv de felul meu, dar nici chiar.”

„Atunci ce eşti?”

„Un optimist, scumpo.”

„Ai grijă, doamne. Prea mult optimism strică.”

 

 

 

 

*

 

 

 

 

Ȋncolăcită în jurul lui, Lyanna îngaimă ceva în întunecimea camerei. Rhaegar nu încetase sa-şi plimbe degetele prin părul ei, deşi, la un moment dat, auzise el uşa deschizându-se. Ei şi, de ce să-i pese lui ce are să creadă lumea? Cu atât mai mult că Lyanna tresări şi ea odată înainte de a se relaxa din nou.

„Ce spui tu acolo?” o întrebă.

Se mişcă, tragându-i mâna înspre mijlocul ei. „Ce sa spun? Mai mult de atât nu pot.”

Incremeni şi el pentru un moment. „Lyanna, tu nu te joci cu mine, aşa e?”

„Cum să mă joc? Sunt serioasă.”

Aici. Ȋn sanatoriu. Ȋncolţit din toate părţile de umbre ale morţii, un grăunte de speranţă. Pe asta zău că nu putuse să o anticipeze.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The answer is, of course, 'no'. Of course not. Optimist he says. Pfft.


	5. AU3v2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yes, this one's in English don't be afraid.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The cigar stub rolls off the table, falling to the ground. Rhaegar gives it one long look, wondering if he should exert himself and pick it up. It would involve movement on his part. “You’re really going to leave that there?”

“Not as if the carpet will be ruined.” Lyanna leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “Fine.” He picked the stub up and deposited it in the ashtray. “You can be rather demanding.”

The young woman neither denied nor confirmed. Instead she looked up at the ceiling. Rhaegar presumed she was eyeing the gauche cherubs frolicking along the expanse. “Not all of us can survive on being lax,” she pointed out after a moment.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"One should think it wise of you, were you to put your best interests above those of people who unremorsefully seek to do you harm. Or is it that you are one of those men?" Her lips quirked.

"One of those men?" Confusion swirled within the veil of mist. A gust of wind tugged on the bells hanging from the beams. They clinkered merrily. "What pray, are these men who inspire such obvious respect from you?"

She clucked her tongue. “Those men who no longer have any claim on anything which propelled them towards greatness. You could even say they do not deserve to be called men. Spineless lickspittles and disingenuous cowards. Weak-willed worms.”

“You are certainly not shy with your opinions. Do you despise weakness to such a degree?”

“Not weakness. Weakness is all good and well. When it masquerades as strength, though, I take issue.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The bench she’d chosen was surrounded by a collection of overgrown bushes from two sides. Behind it stood a tall, only half-alive, tree, its branches laden with quivering, curled-up leaves. Rhaegar followed her example and sat down, lighting up another cigar.

“How are you ever going to get better if you keep blowing up smoke?” And there he was, a man grown, being berated like a schoolboy, most ironically, the tart-tongued headmistress’ schooldays were not far behind her.

“I did not come here to get better.” He took a deep drag. At least he’d be dying on his own terms if he did end up in a nice lacquered coffin. Or it could be an urn. He hopes it’d be marble.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  

“So will you tell me why you’re constantly hanging about?” It wasn’t that he was precisely bothered. She was better company than half the ward and certainly more pleasant to look at than the doctors lurking about in dark shadows.

“Is there anything else to do here?” Lyanna shrugged. She leaned back, gripping the edge of the bench,. “Besides, it’s not as if I’m holding you from something important. Or do you have somewhere to be?”

“You know the answer to that.” He reached out for his cigar box.

“I enjoy sitting with you. Maybe that’s what I ended up here?”

“For ol’me?”

“Why not?” He sighed, and then laughed. Then berated himself for having done so. “I could be your person, you know.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She could be his person now that Rhaegar actually took the time to think about it. Not that he wanted his own person. He’d done everything he could to avoid considering the notion. It was foolish. Foolish for him. And even more foolish for her. He brought his arm to rest over his eyes, despite the light being diffuse at best.

She could be his person as soon as the sun dropped out of existence and the moon crashed into the Earth and they all died a bloody horrible death. And however soon that would be it could never be soon enough. Rhaegar laughed at the absurdity of the thought. That’d be the day.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

“Can I see it?” she asked, her feet dangling over the edge, touching the surface of the water just barely. Her skirts had been drawn up to her knees, allowing the cool air to wrap around the uncovered flesh as she swung her legs and back forth. “I can show you mine, if you want.”

“A fair enough proposal. But I think I’ll pass.” _I could be your person._ The words were stuck in his head and the more time they spent together, the more difficult it became to deny that he wanted her as his person. In that sense, the thought that there was someone else whose person she was needled him.

“What are you afraid of?”

He wanted to say that she was the one who frightened him. “Nothing.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 _Elia._ She traced the thin vine-like columns and arches. “What is she like, your Elia?” Rhaegar wasn’t quite certain but he thought he detected a tinge of sarcasm there. Instead of answering her straight away, he rolled his sleeve over the dainty writing, hiding the name away from sight.

“She nice. Kind and considerate. Loving and loyal. She is my person.” Which is why Lyanna would never be able to attain that.

“That I can see.” Again with then cynic attitude. “My turn to show.” She dragged up the sleeve of her dress, baring a ridge of thickened tissue, light silvery lines cutting paths across the flesh. He gasped, for a moment his mind refusing to compute.

“Why?”

“I already told you; I despise weakness masquerading as strength.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	6. AU4v1

 

 

 

 

 

 

When someone dear lost their lives, a well-established ritualistic escape from the clutches of grief took over. The general consensus pointed to wakes and days of slow-dragging grief along with prayer and maesters on the side-lines looking into the causes of such a tragedy. Then there were ever-present Silent Sisters, wives and servants to the Stranger, brides in name on whose wedding night gifts consisted of needle and thread for their lips. All these actors stood round the newly departed going through the motions. And those dear did as well. They all ensured the road ahead would not be fraught with unpleasantness and hardships. Except for those who would inevitably suffer some long days after the body was interred or set alight or thrown to the bottom of the sea.

Of course that was not precisely true. When someone dear died, the grieving process started with the first person left behind. It was much the same, all over, no matter where one looked. First a volley of incredulity wrapped itself in armour-layer around the soft heart of the recipient of such news. They’d seen their beloved just the day before, the night past. They might have even spent some time together. Anger followed. It often did when denial suffered crushing defeats. The corpse on the bed did not lie after all. Invariably the sense of loss would permeate the premises and no amount of begging could bring back the dead. And that only left acceptance.

A pity truly that not even one of those noble concepts had been applied to the loss of the living. By which one should understand someone who is lost forever without being dead. A manner of living nightmare trapping its prey in a continual limbo. A most curious case, to be sure, when observed from without and notoriously painful on the inside.

Such thoughts wound their way about in Rhaegar’s head as he stood in his father’s solar, still reeling, still very much in shock, still hoping it was all some manner of trickery. “Nay, that cannot be.” Were he a believer, he might have sworn upon the Father’s beard. “This is some manner of mistake.”

“My sister would never do aught of the manner,” Brandon Stark protested alongside him. At last, something the both of them could agree upon.

“Any yet she has,” the Master of Whisperers assured them. “It seems to me this rivalry would be better served should one or the other know the character of the woman in question. As it stands, neither of you seems quite up to par.”

It made no sense whatsoever. “This is a lie.”

“A lie supported by a wealth of evidence then,” the King finally said. “So you see, Brandon Stark, asking the return your sister of us fruitless. Better you search the ports. Or the whorehouses, why not?” His Majesty chuckled. “My son might well be a fool for taking her, but I perceive you are twice so for thinking there was any innocence on her part.”

Why Arthur of all people?

 

 

 

 

 

 

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this, children, is why you don't read Russian novels....death inevitably weighs in a crushing opinion and flattens your dreams into pancakes of despair and horror.
> 
> Mmmmm, pancakes. Now I'm hungry,


	7. AU5v1

 

 

 

 

 

 

Great was the surprise of the Queen when she saw before her the supine form of a wondrous creature. She gazed upon the feminine shape. "Who goes there?" she asked without fear. Inside her tower none were allowed.

"It matters not what my name be," replied the unknown entity. "I have come many leagues from my palace within the sky to aid you, mortal." The star placed a hand upon Lyarra's protruding middle. "'Tis time that the child come into the world."

To Lyarra those words rang true, for, indeed, the pain of birthing was upon her. It should be a crass ting to note down the struggles and pains the Queen took to deliver her child. As such, it shall be enough to note that like many women, Lyarra fought the ache and triumphed over it with the verve of any other great hero of songs.

For her pain, Lyarra was rewarded with a daughter, a child with the features of her mother; her very image, as it were. And then it came the star's turns to speak to the mother of protecting the child.

"You of no name," began Lyarra, "tell me now why it is you have come."

The star inclined its head. "The gods cannot go over the words of the gods. The curse cannot be broken by them, nor me, nor by you, oh Queen. But the Princess can be protected with this." The guest held out a thin silver necklace with a pendant hanging from it. Lyarra gazed at it questioningly. The star explained, "This that looks like silver is not mere precious metal. It is enchanted. Whosoever wears it around their neck shall have a glamour placed upon them. And whoever sees past the glamour, being only one person of their kind, shall be the one to break the curse."

Lyarra nodded her head, tears in her eyes. "My gratitude knows no bounds," she said in a weak voice, tired from her battle.

"But I must warn you," the star began, "that the glamour is not a pleasant one to behold. And should you rid your daughter of the necklace after placing it on her, then all your praying will have been in vain."

"I care not how she looks, so long as the curse may be broken," Lyarra declared.

And upon the babe they placed the necklace. Before the Queen's very eyes, the face of her child became twisted and scarred. The woman gasped in terror, but she would not take off the necklace. Not even if the gods themselves ordered her to.

Her child wept, as if for the lost loveliness she'd known for too short a time. But Lyarra kissed her brow lovingly and then looked upon the star once more. "I have no words left to give to you."

"Then do as your conscience dictates," the star replies in a soft manner. It touched its hand upon the child's head. "Do not weep, sweet babe, this only for a few years of your life that you must bear this mask."

But what no one had ever told any mortal was that a few years in the eyes of a star could mean decades for the realm of mortals. But the star left before Lyarra could say anymore and her child was born.

Outside the sun was slowly rising and when Lyarra stepped into its light upon the floor her proud shadow had fallen. Yet the child in her arm boasted no shadow of her own. Lyarra knew in her heart that she'd done well, yet as all mothers, the suffering of her child was a wound that would not quite close.

Then came the time for her to abandon the tower. When the door was unlocked, Rickard was the first to enter. He saw his wife with a bundle in her arms, cooing softly to a gurgling creature that was hidden from his sight. He stepped forward, yet stopped short as the eyes of Lyarra rose to his. From within the linens, a small hand short out. And the King's eyes widened.

It was no human his wife embraced, he thought, gazing stupefied at the scales covered limb. He drew closer carefully and looked with silent dread at the child. Two golden, reptilian eyes stared up at him from a twisted face along which ran scars.

"Gods be good," he spoke silently, "what is the meaning of this?"

"This, Your Majesty, is your daughter," Lyarra answered with the tenderness of a mother. "This is Lyanna of House Stark."

Rickard stepped back. "This is no child of mine," he said in a harsh manner. "This is a monster." The babe began to weep, voice thin and raw. "We must be rid of it."

Yet his Queen would not hear of it. "I have given you three sons, each of them worthy and good. I only ask that I be allowed to keep mine own daughter, even if her looks are less than fortunate."

They argued long upon what to do. The Queen's will was as strong as the King's. But she had something he did not. And that was compassion along with the general knowledge that her daughter was beautiful and someday someone would see that.

It was decided that the child should remain in her mother's care, inside the tower where she had been born. Lyarra Stark was not to step a foot out of her prison-home during the day. Only on nights without a moon could she walk about the ground and only accompanied by her mother, who refused to be parted from her child.

And so it was that the little babe with the twisted face found her way into the loving company of a tender mother, who would tell her stories of heroes and fair maidens and wild adventures. And the Queen would assure her daughter she was as beautiful as any of them, while keeping her away from any surface that might reflect her image.

The daughter of the Northerner King and Queen, Lyanna by name which had been granted her, kept growing and growing, still in the loving care of her mother and in the safety of her tower-home. But as she grew, she became more and more curios of the world around her. She longed to feel the light of the sun upon her cheek and to taste sweet water from the icy rovers which flowed through her homeland. Lyanna wished to see the world in the light of day, for she was tired of the frail light of the torch.

“Oh, please mother. I beg of you. Take me outside, just for a little while,” she asked of her slowly aging mother.

Lyarra would shake her head and decline. “You cannot go out, child. Now sit there by the fire and let me tell you a story.”

Lyanna would cross her arms over her chest and pout. “This is hardly fair.” It was so every time. For one reason or another, her mother would not take her outside during the day. But Lyanna had already found a solution. She would not accept her fate meekly, for that was not her lot. Not unlike her mother, there was a spark inside of her, and that spark could not be so easily contained even by a parent’s loving care. Lyanna vowed to herself that she would find her way outside the tower.

And so she waited for sleep to claim her beloved mother and once that had been done. Lyanna approached her cautiously. She unknotted the girdle around her middle and took off of her the keys to the door. It was a fairly easy task and she had been planning it for quite some time.

Clambering down the stairs, Lyanna could hardly contain her joy. She pushed the key in the lock and twisted it gently. The latch gave way and the door opened with a soft squeak. Lyanna slipped outside, looking up at the moonlit sky. She admired the stars and twirled around, her feet feeling the soft grass beneath them. She wanted to run and shout and scream for joy, so happy was she.

The bonds of security lax, the youngest of King Rickard’s children made her way about the vastness before her and somehow managed, after a long walk, to come into the main road, a well-travelled, even by night, piece of land.

It was so that, coming upon her a rider and his horse stopped and stared in horror, muttering to the gods. The beast was kicked in the flanks and Lyanna was left in the dust. Shaking her head, the young woman did not know what to make of such an ill-mannered creature. She continued on her way, walking barefoot the road before her. It was a beautiful night.

The maiden walked and walked until from behind her something heavy approached. Lyanna glanced back and she saw a wheel-house being dragged forth. The driver was looking at her with wide, horrified eyes. Lyanna touched a hand to her face. He begged the gods for mercy and threw at her a silver coin. “I pray you, spirit, let us pass, for I have not any other coin to give.”

Picking the coin up, Lyanna inspected it. She held it up and put it in her mouth, biting on it. It was not of an edible kind, she realised. Thinking that she had no need of it, Lyanna approached the man that had stopped the wheelhouse. He trembled and shivered. Lyanna held out the coin to him.

“Be on your way, good man,” she said.

And away he ran. Confused and somewhat saddened, Lyanna sighed, her shoulders dropping. What had she done wrong?

Contemplating the matter held little interest for her. Soon she had begun walking once more and was making advance. When finally the first light of day came, Lyanna could feel her stomach rumble. She placed a hand to her middle, pressing the part which bothered her. She had not thought to bring food. But that was not so much a problem, she told herself, spying some berries in a bush. Lyanna walked towards the bush, she knelt beside it and picked a few pieces of the small fruit in her hands. It was not consistent food, but it was better than nothing, she reckoned.

The third traveller she met actually fainted. It was at that point that Lyanna began having her suspicions. She left the open road and make for the trees, her heat heavy, her mind numb. It was a small lake that revealed to her the truth. Thirsty, she had approached the body of water and looked down upon it and much to her horror beheld such a creature staring back at her that she cried out in fright and fell backwards. But nothing leaped at her from the water and no pain attacked her. Instead, all was quiet.

Lyanna once more looked down at the water and, the second time around, threw out her hand. It passed through the insubstantial wall, soaking her sleeve and confirming to her that it had been no monster but herself the one that she had seen.

It all made sense then. She could finally understand why her mother had kept her locked up in the tower and why it was that her own father loathed the sight of her. She could finally make out why her brothers were never allowed to see her. Gods be good, she was a hideous creature. Lyanna stared at the reptilian face, the scales and eyes. Her fingers passed over them and her reflection imitated every movement.

Tears were falling down her cheeks. Hugging her knees to her chest, Lyanna wept, for what else could she do? She waited there by the lake until she could weep no more and then finally thought upon what she should do. She decided, without having given it too much thought, that she would not be returning to her mother and the tower. A beast she might be, but she would live freely. 

Without much choice but to keep moving father and farther away, Lyanna Stark vowed to herself that despite her less than common visage would not create her trouble. After all, people had to see that despite the way she looked she was not a monster. The poor child, she had never learned of the cruelty of the world. Her mother had cared well for her, keeping it in her arms, a loving and gentle soul who had not wished to burden her sweet daughter.

The rest of the world, however, had no such compunction. Lyanna had tried all that she could think of to get the trust of other people, but wherever she showed her face there was always someone ready to cast a stone and more would follow. They called her ghost and demon, witch and devil. Even animals spooked at the sight of her. Lyanna was forced to retreat into the woods, take cover in the shadow of tall trees. It only became worse when she finally noticed she laced besides beauty a shadow of her own.

So it was that Lyanna travelling by seven villages was seven times refused entrance and aid, chased away by cruel men and women. Onwards she walked, stopping the nights to lick at her wounds. She had had no success with humans, but the wild beasts of the woods would sometimes join her.

One day, as she was wading in the river, trying to catch some fish, a whine caught her attention. Fearful, Lyanna tried to determine where the sound had come from. She looked around but saw nothing. Shrugging she was about to see to the fish when the cry assaulted her ears again. Turning around fully, her eyes came upon a prone form lying in the grass. Its head raised, a golden-eyes wolf looked at her as if begging for aid.

Lyanna licked her lips and craned her neck in order to better see what ailed the beast. There was blood coating its fur, leaving it grisly stained. The young maiden shuddered but stepped forth, burying her fear deep within her heart. The wolf watched her approach and allowed its head to fall back into the tall grass. Lyanna neared with great caution. She knelt by the wounded beast and looked at its limbs.

An arrow had been shot at it. It had pierced the flesh of a leg. She touched it and the wolf howled. Lyanna drew her hand back. The creature whined. She tried again, this time not startling at the sounds of pain. As gentle as she could, the maiden drew out the tip, anger welling within her at the sight of such ache. The wolf allowed her to work. Ripping a strip of cloth from the folds of her dress, she used the clean river water to wash the wound. After, she tied it to the best of her abilities. Lyanna petted the beast’s head softly and murmured to it words of comfort.

“I must go soon,” she said, still trailing a hand over the soft fur on the creature’s back. Before that, however, she went about gathering some fish. “I know ‘tis not much, my brave friend, but it is all I can give to you.”

Yet her new friend would not allow her to leave. If she tried to stand up and begin her journey, the wolf would attempt to follow. That, of course, only served to injure it further. Upon realising how the matters stood, Lyanna tried to find a satisfactory solution. She could not linger forever near the river after all.

Using all her craftsmanship, she put together many a branches and leaves, fashioning a stretcher of sorts. The wolf watched her patiently and understood, even without words, when it was time to place its weary body on the stretcher.

Lyanna continued on her journey, no longer alone. It did her heart good to have finally found some company.

It was at that time that further south another kingdom, a kingdom of dragons, had fallen prey to their neighbour, the Kingdom of the Stormlands. And the Storm King plundered the halls of the Dragon King and slew the man upon his throne. And the Queen of the Dragon King was spared for her beauty and made to serve the Storm Queen in the great halls of Storm's End. The children of the Dragon King, a boy and a girl, were taken as wards by the Storm King and made to swear fealty to the throne of their father's murderer.

Rhaegar was the name of the boy. And Shaena was his sweet sister. They hailed from distant shores, from an old House, that of Dragonlords, that had sailed from the doom of a once great kingdom. Targaryen was the name of that house and they were the heirs of the legacy.

If Shaena lived a peaceful life, on account of having no memories of her departed father, the son of Aerys, the Dragon King, was not blessed so by the fate. He remembered every detail about his father and mourned his death. And his pain grew into poison. And within him worked a desire for vengeance. He grew alongside the Storm King's sons and shared with them lessons and training. And while Rhaegar, mild and disinterested in appearance, pretended not to master whichever art the Storm King's children chose to try their hand at, he was in fact the best of them.

The young Dragon took up the harp to pass away the time and escape the Storm King's children when he felt stabs of sorrow too strong to endure. He hid away with the instrument and played sad songs. Shaena would sometimes hobble after him with a child's innocence. And she would weep in his shoulder as the melodies burrowed their way into her heart.

Little did the young man know of what awaited him. For more sorrow was to find its way upon his doorstep.

It came the time for the first of the Storm King's sons to wed. Robert Baratheon was he called and all maidens in the land knew him by the black of his hair and the blue of his eyes. He was, however, not impressed by any of the ladies his father's lords offered him. Thus he demanded that he be given the fair Shaena. The Dragon Queen wept but offered no resistance and Shaena herself seemed to accept her fate.

All but Rhaegar held their silence. The young Dragon, on the other hand, protested to the union and claimed that he knew of maidens fairer than his sister. At that, Robert put a halt to his courting of Shaena and asked the prisoner Prince what he meant by those words.

"Simply, Your Grace, that Shaena Targaryen is not the best choice." His words made an impression upon many of the King's lord. They nodded their head in agreement and claimed that as the daughter of a defeated King she could not become a glorious Queen. Rhaegar endured the denigration of his departed parent as best he could.

The Storm King rose from his throne and decreed thus. "If you shall bring my son a creature fairer than your sister then he shall wed her."

And so was Rhaegar Targaryen made a knight sworn to the Storm King and his mission was given to him. Riding out of the Stormlands along the Trident, the young knight travelled for many days and night, passing many keeps and asking to see the daughter of the house in hopes of finding a girl more beautiful than Shaena.

His efforts seemed in vain.

He was galloping at full speed through a darkened portion of the forest when something caught his eye. Rhaegar dismounted and neared what looked to be fireflies dancing around the statue of a beautiful maiden. Moss and vines had imprisoned the woman and the marble was chipped and cracked in some places. It seemed a crime that he would pass by and not even glance her way.

Rhaegar took out a small knife and slowly cut away at the vines that wound tightly around the statue. He cleaned away the moss, going as far as to gather water as he could best to wash away some of the dirt and dust that had stained the pristine marble. Satisfied that the statue was restored to some of its former glory, the knight made to mount his horse once again but the fireflies swirled around him, as if to stop him.

"Brave knight, do not depart so fast," a voice spoke from behind him.

Rhaegar jumped around and came face to face with a beautiful woman. Tall and slender was she, with auburn rich hair and the most beautiful blue eyes he had ever gazed upon. A pang in his heart, however, made him glance towards the statue.

"Good ser, I beg that you would allow me to give you a reward," the woman said. Her translucent form held a hand out. "Tell me what it is you seek and I shall help."

But it was too late. Rhaegar was filled with terror when he realised that the statue was no mere sculpture, but a headstone. He had stepped upon this woman's grave and called her spirit back. Yet she would aid him.

"My lady," he bowed his head, "pray forgive me. Had I know I was disturbing your resting place," he trailed off, shamed and contrite.

"Nay, nay," cried the redhead, "you have not disturbed. You did me a kindness, for those vines inconvenienced me and the moss was even worse. Tell me what you seek."

A good deed could only be rewarded with another good deed. Rhaegar looked upon the fair maiden once more. "I see the fairest maiden of the land for His Grace the Prince of the Stormlands to wed."

A thoughtful expression crossed the woman's features. "The fairest maiden of the land," she murmured. "Are you certain?" He nodded. "Very well then. The fairest maiden of the land can be found in the house of the King, House Tully by name. She is young and sweet as a maiden can be. And she is the fairest of the land."

The spirit spoke to him of which road he should take and more, she gave to him a small trinket, telling him to hand it to the King himself. "It will ensure that he accepts," she said with a small smile upon her face. "I bid you good luck on your journey, ser knight. May the gods protect you."

"And you," Rhaegar answered to her in kind.

The court of the King he found where the good spirit had told him he would. Rhaegar, as per her instructions, asked that the King see him. Hoster Tully was his name. He was a proud, jovial man, yet there was a sadness in his eyes. Rhaegar bowed to him and told the man of his search, and even of the kind ghost he had come upon in the woods.

"You have seen my Catelyn," the man cried out when the knight handed him the trinket. "Gods be good. You have seen my daughter."

The King told him the sad tale of Catelyn Tully who had drowned in one of the rivers trying to save her younger sister. "I had many children with my wife. All but two are gone," the man continued. "There is a son. Mt heir, Edmure. And I have yet one daughter, Lysa. And should you wish it, you may take her back to the Stormlands with you."

Lysa Tully was summoned before her father and Rhaegar was struck by the she bore to her departed sister. She gazed at his with blue eyes and a shy smile upon her lips. It was with gladness that she heard about her sister. "She saved me, good ser, and to her I owe my life." And when he spoke to her of the Storm King, the Prince and his court, the maiden seemed eager to travel that way. "You shall take me with you, shan't you, brave knight?"

At a nod of his head she clapped her hands together in delight. Sweet and child-like was this maiden, so close in age to his sister. And she, he decided, would make a splendid wife for Robert Baratheon.

So it was that the King of the Isles and the Rivers sent his daughter forth with a dowry and courtiers and much joy. This band of merry men and women reached the seat of the Storm King just as the young Prince was losing his patience and contemplating wedding young Shaena despite the promise made to her brother. To her great luck, Shaena was saved from even hearing of such plans when the doors leading to the great hall bust open and in strode her brother, on his arm a radiant being.

Introduced to the court as the daughter of the King of Isles and Rivers, Lysa Tully became the object of Robert's affection much to the delight of all gathered there. It was decreed that Rhaegar Targaryen, his sister and their mother be given places at the King's table as the wedding of Robert Baratheon and Lysa Tully was celebrated throughout the land.

Yet trouble was not far away. For as quick as his passion had been roused by the young beauty, so it faltered when Robert learned that Lysa carried his child after no more than five moons of being wife to him. The Prince had never been a patient sort and his wife was even less so. Lysa was bothered too by the fact that the Prince kept many a mistress as she went through her confinement and when a daughter was born with her mother's red hair and blue eyes, Robert barely deigned to look upon the child.

Lysa turned to the fair Shaena for comfort as the two of them became fast friends and trusted in the once-Princess. But Robert, free from the passion which had taken his eyes away from Shaena found once again that he would like to bed the fair-haired young woman. Yet this time Shaena herself protested.

"You will not have me," she spat at his feet, anger burning in her eyes. "It would be a sin in the eyes of our gods and in those of the people."

"How wrong you are," Robert said, taking her by the shoulders. He smiled charmingly at her. "Come with me, sweet Shaena. Give yourself to me and I will show you a world of wonders."

But Shaena fought his hold like a madwoman, she scratched and bit and kicked her legs. Upon wounding his cheek with her sharp nails, Robert threw her away from him. "Ungrateful wretch," he bellowed at her. "You live because we allowed it and you will show such lack of gratitude still?"

Poor Shaena was thrown in the dungeons for the heinous act of opposing Robert's will and her mother made to suffer much on her account by the Storm Queen, who, having been presented the story by her son, saw in Shaena a temptress of the lowest sort. Even Princess Lysa was convinced of the other's guilt and refused to seek her out in the dark dungeons.

As punishment for not watching and controlling his sister, Rhaegar was sent away from the Storm King's court, never to return. "You have disappointed me," the Storm King said upon his departure. "I have raised you as mine own son."

"Yet you have never been a father to me," Rhaegar responded. "My father you slew without mercy, though you could never replace him." He turned away from the man, not wishing to see his face for a moment more. He could not bear it.

And away he went, to become a wandering knight, with nothing but a harp, a lance and a sword. He promised himself that one day he would find a way to release his mother and sister from their bondage and the Storm King would pay for all the suffering caused.

Until then, however, he was to wander throughout lands near and far.

And the first of his stops was in the Kingdom of the Reach. Once upon a time the kingdom had been ruled by the famous Gardener dynasty. They had at some point been supplanted by House Tyrell, the House of the Rose.

The King of the Reach was a rather mindless man who was ruled entirely by his shrewish wife, an intelligent woman who knew her own mind and cared nothing for the nonsense her husband spouted, except to laugh at them from time to time. She was, however, a dutiful wife, having given her husband an heir and two daughters.

Unfortunately, it became apparent to Rhaegar quite fast, that the only person of good sense in the royal family was this Queen, Olenna of name. Her offspring were about as bright as their father, if a bit more cunning.

Still, they were none of them opposed to his presence. So Rhaegar was, for a time at least, happy to live in Highgarden alongside kind King Luthor, his son and heir, Mace, and the two earlier mentioned daughters, Janna and Mina. His life fell into a pattern there, for the Kingdom being at peace with all its neighbours, knights could joust and drink and make merry all day long without fear of interruptions.

Talented with his sword and lance as well as with his harp, Rhaegar became a favourite of sorts and his wit helped him enter even the good graces of the Queen, who between you and me, was a bit sour and mean, though not at all what could be termed evil. It was, perhaps, apt to be termed the very best period of his life, where he was his own master and owe to no one anything.

On balmy nights he would play his harp in the rose gardens and the King's daughter would weep foolishly be the song joyful or sad. The Queen would admonish them soundly and slap their hands away from their own instruments. "Do you want all of us to go deaf?" she would when the girls offered to join Rhaegar in his songs. "Let the good ser knight delight us and keep your foolishness to yourselves."

The King would nod along to whatever his wife said. He would smile at the girls and tell them they would sing and play another time. But that time never seemed to come. Rhaegar was, of course, very much amused by the whole scene. He would console the two Princesses with songs of valiant heroes and dream upon the day when he himself could be Shaena and his mother's hero.

"Beautifully played, ser knight," the Queen praised him.

"Your Majesty," Rhaegar bowed to them and the King. Then to the two Princesses who were giggling and whispering to one another about brave knights and great heroes.

However, after some time had passed, Rhaegar found that the court of the King he served under no longer suited him. Something within him whispered for another adventure, for he could no longer sit still. And so it was that Rhaegar Targaryen took his leave of the good King Tyrell and his sharp-tongued Queen and of the weeping daughters also.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Context: [fairy tale attempt](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5039206/chapters/11585389)


	8. AU6v1p1

 

 

 

 

Rhaella looked on horrified at her brother, begging him to show mercy even as his nails dug a painful path along her arm. “’Tis all your fault. You have made him weak. Poisoned him against me with your indulgent ways, your innumerable praise.” He shook her harshly. “And now look what has come of it. He plots against me. His father. He goes against the will of the gods.” Aerys pushed her out of the way.

Her legs gave out, the fall made even more disgraceful by the presence of the Spider. The man rubbed his hands together, a servile smile still lingering, quirking his lips upwards.

 

 

 

 

“It must be some sort of misunderstanding,” Steffon Bararheon offered, his cool and collected demeanour a stark contrast to her brother’s incensed manner. “Not once has His Grace failed in his duties and not once has he been led astray.” She wanted to sing hymns to the Mother, begging her to keep the child safe. “Your Majesty, I beg that you would reconsider.”

“I shall reconsider nothing. The wretch’s head will fall.” Rhaella’s hear squeezed in her chest. Not her sweet babe. She clamped her lips tightly together, in a bid to hide her pain. It was not as effective as she’d hoped. “Be silent, cursed bitch!” the tyrant bellowed.

 

 

 

 

“Kinslaying would attract the wrath of the gods,” the High Septon warned. Rhaella closed her eyes, pretending she were somewhere else. Anywhere else. Aerys would not see sense. He was convinced their son had plotted. He would take the boy’s head. “It would be wiser to consider the matter further.”

“And what, wake with a knife to my throat?” her husband croaked, lifting one finger towards the holy man accusingly. “You would not mourn my parting, worm.”

“The Seven Kingdoms would grieve. I would grieve with them,” the man replied with great dignity. “Think upon my words, Your Majesty.”

“If I see fit.”  

 

 

 

 

“I am begging you,” Rhaella whispered, fingers twisting even tighter around the smooth, pale flesh. “You can find a thousand other ways to win my brother’s favour. Don’t take my son.” Tears slid down her cheeks. “He is just a fool boy, who reached too high. I can teach him better. I will. He will never go against his father again.”

The Spider blinked slowly. “A mother’s grief is always so very sorrowful to witness.” Yet his voice betrayed naught. “I am afraid the King had made up his mind. Not even I can undo it.”

“You can. I know you can,” she insisted. “I am begging you.”

 

 

 

 

Throwing her arms around him, Rhaella squeezed Rhaegar to her. “I will find a way, my son. Do not fear.” But Rhaegar showed no signs of panic, as though her words were superfluous. He did brush back a strand of hair. His lips pursed. Her hand went to cover the bruise. “Think nothing of it.” Drawing back, Rhaella looked up into his face. “Apologise to him. Plead for mercy. And swear loyalty. He shall let you live.” His lips tightened even further. “Rhaegar, I am doing this for your own good. He will be swayed. Many have spoken for you. Do not let their attempts be in vain.”

 

 

 

 

“I would not wish to hear the words even if you were willing to speak them,” his father said, arms crossed over his chest. Rhaegar followed the movement of his feet though. “Not only would you be a traitor, but a craven as well. I should kill you with my two hands were that the case.” He was growing bored. It seemed his father had no point to the little speech, other than to gloat. “And yet if I were to take your head, it would leave me with quite the protest on my hands. I admit, you have successfully divided my lords. Take pride; you are not a complete failure.

 

 

 

 

Arthur shook his head, eyeing the hanging tapestries. Rhaegar willed his friend to look his way, but it seemed he would not win this one. “Lord Baratheon spoke for you. Lord Arryn offered grudging support. But there is enough proof to build a case upon. You were careless.”

“And yet he won’t kill me.” Once more his companion shook his head. “What then? He does not want me to bed. And he does not wish to kill me yet. Has he a plan?”

“Not that I know of. There are worse fates than death out there, you know?” He nodded. But death was final. Nothing else was.   

 

 

 

 

“I think it is more than fair,” his father was saying, the smug expression he bore causing Rhaegar’s teeth to continue on their grinding path. “You may keep your head, and I may be satisfied that you will have learned a lesson.”

“No one had ever returned from beyond the Neck,” he pointed out, far calmer than he felt at the moment. At least he would have some dignity in death. A choice of how he perished.

“The woods witch promised the prince would be born of my line. If you are he, then nothing is truly beyond your power.” He arched an eyebrow, waiting to be challenged on his statement.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I don't even know.


	9. AU6v1p2

 

 

 

Rhaegar stared at the young man. “And I suppose you are the sole guard.” The other shrugged, clearly unimpressed with the way in which he’d spoken. Not that Rhaegar minded one bit. In fact, as far as he was concerned, the scrawny keeper of the three towers could die of being let down. He retained his seat atop the horse. “Will you allow me to pass, or shall we keep at this until nightfall?”

“That depends,” the man answered insolently. Clearly being for so long beyond the Crown’s reach had given some the impression they could speak as they wished, with whomever. “If you’re planning to make for the Wall, you are more than welcome to.”

“I take the road to Winterfell.”

“That I cannot allow.”

 

 

Rhaegar wiped his sword clean of blood and struck its tip into the yielding earth. “I wonder how many of my brethren you have slain.” The guardian was panting, crouched over his broken sword. He lifted his eyes to Rhaegar’s. The Prince was breathing hard as well. “Can you recall?”

“Not many. My father slew many more, when yet the old Aegon ruled. You are the first fool who dares make for Winterfell. If you want my advice, forget that keep. He shook his head.

“I am required to bring back something for my efforts.”   

“You will never return if you step foot there.”

 

 

The road was deserted. Rhaegar had dismounted a few hours past and he’d been walking leisurely along the path, a low whistle upon his lips. The guard had not lied. There was no life, no one for miles. As though the lands were truly barren. He watched this way and that, hoping to catch sight of at least a frightened hare scurrying off in the distance. Nu such luck. “Some adventure we’ve landed ourselves in,” he told the steed whose hooves trod the ground. “Might be we should make back.” Nay, his father would have his head. He was still determined to die on his own terms. Rhaegar pulled on the beast’s reins.  

 

 

 

The lord, a man young enough to have been his son, frowned up at Rhaegar. His child’s face had the stroke of confusion upon it. “No one ever goes there. Not even the dogs. There are wolves, great, vicious ones.” Just his luck. “It would be wiser to turn around and forget all about any treasure.”

“So there is a treasure?” It was more confirmation than he’d previously had, that was for certain. The boy kicked at the pebbles strewn along the path. “I do not plan to die.”

“Aye, no one does,” he agreed, sounding for all the words decades older. “Those who go there surely die though. As sure the sun rises in the East.”

 

 

 

The gates were broken, as though a battering ram had put an end to all resistance. Rhaegar peered into the darkness. Even with the sun behind him, illuminating a path for him to step upon, none of that light managed to seep into the brooding blackness sealed behind the border he contemplated crossing.

His horse whinnied softly. Rhaegar was loathe to leave it out, in the cold. The courtyard was surely spacious, but offered no protection. He tugged on the reins and guided the beast, fidgeting as it was, towards a sprawling building long left in disrepair. It must have been a flourishing stable once. These door he could open without much effort. There was straw upon the ground and a wealth of empty stables.

 

 

 

He’d been wandering aimlessly. Rhaegar had found a time-abused tower, locked doors, a wilting weirwood with bones beneath it and a pond which had seen better days. He had not once witnessed movement from within. No wolves, no people. No Starks. It was unnerving. He did not even dare whistle, lest he disturb the silence.

Rounding the corner, he found himself standing before another pair of doors. These ones had been carved out of fine marble. Runes ran along the edges, gliding and swirling. He closed his eyes against the dance. Could it be what he thought it was?

He stepped forth.

 

 

 

The stone-slabs creaked as he paced over them. He had had to return to the drafty stable and find a long forgotten torch, light it and return to the cavernous space in which the great lord slept. He went from one effigy to another, scrutinising the worn faces. None of these men looked as though they’d had a particularly pleasant life. It had to be the dratted cold. Some of the graves lacked effigies. Runes had been carved into the slabs. He recognised not a single one. The Old Tongue had never interested him. Drawing to a halt before the first friendly expression he’d encountered thus far, Rhaegar pushed the flame closer to the carving.   

 

 

 

Frozen in place, he stared down at the lump resting so very carelessly along the grave’s side. Rhaegar drew in a slow breath, hoping the terror would drain away as he inhaled. Instead, the creature at his feet jolted, one of its legs kicking out. He would have jumped backwards only that the animal’s head shot up and glow-in-the-dark eyes nailed him to the spot.

A low growl rumbled through the wide chamber. His own eyes widened. And before he knew it, he was rolling on the ground, tussling with a very large wolf, pushing his forearm horizontally against its neck. His fingers curled around thick, smooth dawn.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Continued for
> 
> Hope you enjoyed.


	10. AU6v1p3

 

 

He’d struck the beast over the head harder than he thought he’d be able to, considering it had been doing its damnably best to pin him underneath it. Still, the blow had knocked the creature back, slinking towards a darkened corner, leaving him to watch the departure.

To be entirely honest though, his enemy did not leave for good. Instead, the wolf hid somewhere behind another grave. He watched for some time, unsure of whether to follow and deal a fatal blow. It might attempt to attack him once more.

Cold seeped into him, working its way up his spine. He slowly climbed to his feet. Nay, why kick an opponent when it was already down? He’d not do it. Not for the moment.

 

 

 

In what he supposed to be the middle of a the long chamber, Rhaegar dropped the pile of wood he’d brought from the stables. He could hear the soft scraping of claws against stone but did not mind it as much as he thought he might. He was not at ease either. Yet, should the wolf prove content to leave him be, he would return the favour.

The flames ate away at the thin bark-covering of his offerings. There was a lot of wood, neatly copped up. It made little sense. Every single person he’d encountered had warned that no man visited the ghosts of Winterfell and lived to tell the tale. Yet somehow there was still chopped firewood.

Once more the sound of paws treading the ground reached his ears.  

 

 

 

It was his damnable confidence that convinced him to stretch out near the fire and close his eyes. Without there was only darkness, but the crypts had warmed some with the fire. The horse would survive, for he had left oats for it to eat. As for himself, he was risking his life by trusting the wolf would not maw him when he let his guard down.

He sighed and closed his eyes, enjoying the silence. It had lost its daunting character, becoming instead very near contemplative. He might even find it within himself to sleep the night away. Stifling  a yawn, he turned on his side. His instinct urged him to open his eyes. He didn’t.

 

 

 

Something brushed against him. Instinctively, he flinched, sleep-addled mind veering into the territory of panic. Mercifully, whatever it was that woke him hadn’t noticed his reaction. The light he could feel on his face lost some of its warmth, the glow dimming. Something had stepped before the fire. Was it might be the wolf, searching for salted meat? That would be the day. Poor beast must have slipped without.

Ever so careful, Rhaegar eased his eyes open, just slightly, just enough to catch sight of a most unexpected thing. He sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to sit up. He could hardly believe it. And yet the proof was there, before his very eyes.

 

 

 

She was much quicker than he’s expected. Rhaegar still managed to lock her against him, his arms two bands of iron around the struggling girl. “Keep still. I won’t harm you,” he promised. He might have spoken to the walls for all the difference it made. Might be she did not understand the tongue. “I won’t let go, so you might as well stop.” He kept his voice deliberately calm, hoping that might reach her at least.

Miraculously, she sank like a stone in his grasp. For a moment he though it had. That was not the case. A clever trick and had he not been paying mind she might have managed to escape. “I already said I won’t harm you. If you want more food, you may help yourself to it, but as a boon, I should like to know the name of my guest.”

 

 

 

Shaken by the light laughter streaming past her lips, Rhaegar relaxed his hold just a fraction. Then he heard her. “It is you who is the guest here.” He did let go. But instead of disappearing into the darkness as he thought she might, the woman, apparent mistress of all he saw, crept nearer to the fire and picked up a strip of salted meat. “Lyanna,” she offered after some time. “And if you think to ask for anything other than my name, I have already removed your sword.”

Sure enough, his weapon was on the other side of her. The free hand curled around its handle. “Who are you?”

 

 

 

 

Somewhat dazed, he watched Lyanna drain his skin, the silence between them lengthening. He’d been recounting to her how exactly it was that he came to be in Winterfell. She finally pulled the skin away from her lips and placed the cork back where it belonged. “You are fortunate you did not run into any of my brothers,” she answered, seemingly not bothered by either the revelation of who he was or by his reasons for occupying her crypts.

“Brothers?” She nodded. “Where are they?”

She shrugged. “Somewhere around here. You should leave come morning. They would not like to discover you here.”

 

 

 

“Lyanna?” Climbing to his feet, Rhaegar stared at the spot where he’d last seen the girl. He didn’t even know when he’d fallen asleep. She had continued eating the meat, warming herself by the fire. And now there was no sight of her.

He staggered slightly when he tripped over an unevenness in the floors. It did not stop him for long. Rhaegar began searching the graves nearby, wondering if she’d hidden behind one of them. Instead, his search took him to the same wolf he’d matched skills with. The beast looked up, but this time merely blinked in acknowledgeable.

A scarp of cloth caught his sight. Wonder struck him. “Nay.”

  

 

 


	11. AU6v1p4

 

 

 

The courtyard was empty. Rhaegar still sat on the thick log he’d carried from one corner of the barn near the entrance of the crypts. His sword rested at his feet and he was fiddling with a piece of wood, carving. He should have been looking for an entrance to the great hall. “Are you going to come out?” he questioned, gazing over his shoulder at the darkened doorway. “’Tis not that very cold. I though you Northerners had ice in your veins already.” The she-wolf growled, but did not move her head from its comfortable position atop her paws. “Very well, my lady; keep to your shadows. I shall stay in the sunlight a while longer.” The low growl coming from the wolf was answer enough, so he said no more.

 

 

 

The wolf ran past him. For a brief moment he tensed as the fur ripples in the wind. In the firelight it had seemed the grey was darker. Nay, it was a light shade. “Wait, where are you going?” he called after her, instinctively giving chase. “Lyanna!”

Lyanna was not hearing a word he said. He suspected she was ignoring him; might be it was her manner, she was a woman after all. He did not stop though. Before long his lungs were straining under the strain of providing him air. Should be stop at that point, he would have surely lost her.

“Wait!” She did not. Might be she never would.

And that proved to be precisely the push he needed.   

 

 

 

His stomach rolled uncomfortably. The poor hare stood no chance against the concentrated efforts of the she-wolf. Her jaws closed around her prize, shaking the poor creature back and forth. He could see the legs kick. Lyanna had no qualms about ending her meal’s life. He supposed she wouldn’t. After all, he saw no other manner of survival. Pulling away from the scene, he sat down upon the protruding roots of a tree.

The sole companion he’d found thus far and he was taken aback that she fought tooth and nail for her survival. The bones he’d seen at the feet of the weirwood tree; it made a little more sense. She must have placed them there. Or her brothers. A sigh left his lips.        

 

 

 

The half-eaten carcass of the hare rested upon the maiden’s tunic. Rhaegar wondered at the decision. He watched the she-wolf tear chunks of meat from the soft flesh. “I wonder, do you recall eating when you become a girl again?” With the way she’d been gobbling down the salted-meets he’s brought along, he thought she mightn’t. The wolf glanced up, licked at the blood-stained fur. “I will ask you about it.” Her eyes fell back to the food and she continued with the task. So much like a woman. He chuckled. “Enjoy your meal, my lady.” He returned to the light and sat down on the log. Rhaegar picked up the piece of wood he’d been fiddling with previously and his knife.     

 

 

 

Rhaegar deliberately kept his face turned towards the fire. He heard the whooshing and cracking. The moon was high upon the sky, still a full round circle of light, same as the night before. Coughing rang out behind him. Not the manner suggesting someone announced their arrival. Rather, it sounded as though the poor girl was choking.

With little thought towards modesty, he whirled around, jumping over the first of the graves. She’d hidden closer than the first time he had found her. To her great luck that was. He helped her up with ease, marvelling at the dried blood. He hadn’t expected there would be proof of her hunt. “Easy, my lady. Easy.”

She quietened ever so slightly. His arm moved around her waist, holding her up. Her skin was ice-cold. 

 

 

 

It was a wonder the woman was still alive, Rhaegar decided as Lyanna slipped into the foliage covered pool before the weirwood. He should have allowed her to go on her own. Especially considering her brothers might be lurking around, lying in wait for him. Alas, the very thought that a poor maiden might have to face the dangers of darkness on her own would not allow him any peace.

She broke the surface of the waters once more disturbing the leaves, setting them adancing. He was growing cold just watching her. And that moon above them was still full. Two nights in a row. A thoughtful sound left his lips. At the very least he would be distracted by something appropriate as opposed to the more suggestive and infinitely more dangerous option available.  

 

 

 

First the food. Then his tunic. Rhaegar kept a suspicious gaze upon the maiden drying her hair before the fire. In truth he did not regret giving up his tunic. His fingers remained firmly curled around the handle of his sword. “So you cannot explain it to me?” he questioned.

Lyanna faced him. “Nay. If I could, I would tell you how to aid me beside.”

“So every day you spend as a wolf and at night you became a woman.” There had to be some logic the curse followed. Might be it had to do with the full moon. Say I aid you nevertheless, what do I get in return?“

“The treasure.” A flicker of disappointment was crushed beneath the heel of ambition. “That is what you came for, is it not?”      

 

 

 

Pain erupted in his side, forcing Rhaegar wide awake. He rolled away from the power of the kick, the cry upon his lips lose in the ruckus. He heard Lyanna’s voice, possibly because he knew the sound of it, more clearly than he did the others. Although he could tell they were male.

The brothers.

“Brandon, stop it. You’re killing him.” Rhaegar was tempted to agree. The burn spread to his chest. “Stop it! He’s mine!”

The lull in the stream of assaults allowed him to rise off of the ground. In the glow of the fire he could make out, beside the slim form of the she-wolf, three more shapes.

The sound of flesh slapping against flesh rent through the air. “He is dead, that’s what he is.”  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last one


	12. AU7

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You’re such a prick.” Jon dropped the tennis ball in a frustrated gesture and levelled a harsh stare towards his brother. For his part, Aegon offered a grin, mischief and anticipation warring for dominance upon his face. “Forget it. I’m not doing it.” Aegon wiggled one eyebrow. “No.” His brother insisted. “This is stupid.”

“Maybe.” His brother picked up the ball and threw it to him. Jon had little choice but to catch it. “But it’s possible it’s brilliant. It could be.”

He shook his head. It could also be that his brother was mental. “It’s just a stupid journal. Doesn’t change a thing about it. Not a thing.” The ball dropped to the ground for a second time.

Rhaenys finally moved from her position on the couch. “You’re wrong.” She hadn’t yet spoken up about the matter; Jon supposed she finally felt she needed to. Jon wondered if it was because she’d been with the man in his last hours. He himself had arrived too late, much too late for anything of significance to pass between them. “This is important. It’s his last wish. Surely you can do that much for him, can you not?” Her arms crossed over her chest. “I know this must be difficult–“

“It’s not,” he brushed her off. “That’s just it. This is not difficult. It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”  He spread his arms wide in an angry motion. Rhaenys did not back away. Jon suspected it had to do with being the daughter of a military man as much as with the strong characters their father had seen fit to cultivate within each of them. He wouldn’t be surprised to see her take him to task. Nevertheless, he maintained his sullen stare. “The easiest thing of all.”

“Gods’ sake, Jon, he was sorry for it. You know that. Quit being contrary.” Just his luck, two hens to peck his brains into bloody bits. Jon glowered at his brother.

“Do I? Well, that must make me an unfeeling monster. Turns out I quite enjoy the position.” Rhaenys pursed her lips. Aegon rolled his eyes.

“We are doing this. You’re coming along. It’s already decided.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. AU8

"I simply find it strange, is all," Lyanna spoke over Brandon's protests, eyeing the letter from King's Landing with no small amount of distrust. "To think, this link has existed for a long time. Black Alys has been dead for many a year. Did it slip the mind of our sovereign thus far?"

"You are a suspicious little thing," her father said, admiration shining through. "It will serve you well." Lyanna shrugged in reply to that. "Nevertheless, your brother is correct; to decline the invitation would cast us in poor light."

"I had no intention of suggesting we refuse." That was not entirely true. But then, her father need not know every single one of her thoughts. He certainly did not need to know what she'd gathered on the illustrious figure of the well-beloved Crown Prince's son last his path led him to them. Despite that, if her father was determined that she drag herself through a year or two at court, she would accept that. "I was merely wondering as to the reason behind such an unexpected invitation."

"Come now, you know as well as I that the Crown Prince's son remains unwed." For good reason. "If the Queen should offer a favourable look, it would not go amiss."

"He is ill, father; very, very ill, if rumours hold true." And no wonder. It was just what he deserved for his philandering ways. A man ought to grow up at some point. The Crown Prince's son had not done as much; she hadn't the inclination to look kindly upon those who refused to face reality anymore than she took to deserters fleeing the Wall. Lyanna could barely abide a frolicsome nature in her own brothers, let alone in a man she must share her life with. "I should think it more an insult if marriage were offered."

"Might be they mean to wed one of the younger sons off. In any case," Brandon spoke rather loudly, "this is not what is most important. You need not make any promises of that nature and shall have the excuse of an absent guardian until the eve of the new year should any unscrupulous cad press his suit."

"I do not know about cads," she offered in a relaxed manner. "I do not, however, know that father might not agree with you." He was the one who had brought up marriage, after all. Her lips compressed in mutinous challenge; daring her sire to deny it.

"'Twas my meaning you should not be insensitive should such an opportunity rear its head. Not at all that you ought to encourage any attentions." Not that encouraging attentions would change the course of fate. He knew as much. It was simply not fated that she capture the attention of a claimant to the throne. "We are understood then; you leave for King's Landing upon the new turn."

"If that is your wish, lord father, of course I am." She had no true objection to raise and her brother seemed almost eager to have her gone; presumably as he would soon have a bride to occupy his days with and a head-strong opinionated sister posed a threat all of its own.

"And glad I am for that. Brandon, leave us. I've a few matters to broach which needn't interest you." That too was most interesting. Lyanna smoothed a hand over her skirts. She prepared herself, if only because the painful squeeze of her stomach signalled the potential for troublesome requests rearing themselves. Her brother acquiesced and left her and father to their talk. "Your aunt will be there; I take it there is little need to remind you of your promise."

"I haven't even the faintest inclination to compete with her," she replied without much thought. Aunt Branda had soured long years past and whatever the cause of their current correspondence, it was unlikely that her ire had passed. "In any event, I am not her sister and have naught to gain by goading her."

Father's brow furrowed. "Do not speak such of your mother. She was a kindly woman." Except to her sister whom she could not suffer at her side for one reason or another. That, indeed, was a curious point of view. She chose not to pursue the line, however.

"Apologies, father; I did not mean any insult. Aunty has nothing to fear of me. I am going to court by request not desire and do imagine whatever Her Majesty's reason for calling me forth, it shall find quick solution."

"Would that I were as optimistic. I'd no wish to ask before your brother but are you certain you've no need of one of your brothers. I can write to Jon Arryn. He will spare Ned." A smile blossomed upon her lips, yet she shook her head.

"Poor Ned. He would not refuse, that I know. But what good would it do? Nay; I shall see you come the new year. Truly, father, I can survive."

He chuckled. "There was never any question of that." He patted his knee in invitation, a gesture Lyanna remembered well from her early youth. She accepted it and moved from her seat, throwing her arms around him in a loose embrace. "But you cannot fault an old man for wishing to know his daughter safe."

Warmed, she pressed a kiss to his cheek. Stubble scratched her lips and chin. "I should worry too, if you were leaving us." It would be absurd to resent love and care. She'd heard the argument made that it was a mark of disrespect for her father to fret so about her. But he fretted for all his children, and she much doubted he harboured disrespect for his offspring as such. "I will write, and you will know that I am well."

"One takes what one can. I daresay, you must not forget to write though. I take it as a promise."

"It is a promise, father. I shall write as often as I can." Though she did not doubt there would be much to keep her otherwise engaged. Still, it cost her nothing to give him her word.

 

 

 

Rhaegar paused, his pace faltering. His eyes strayed towards the end of the hallway, but to no avail. The shadows yielded naught forth. He sighed. Arthur placed a hand on his shoulder, distracting him from the flickering flames. "We don't have to be here." The unfortunate thing was they were the only ones waiting without. He said as much to his friend.

"I cannot leave him to suffer alone." And to think he had arrived in an unplanned manner and might have well happened upon the scene when only a pyre might be required.

The Dornishman did not release him. "As to that, it does you credit. But I doubt any man would wish himself beset with spectators at his deathbed." His friend had a way of putting such matters into perspective. Nevertheless, Rhaegar shook his head. "What good will our lingering do? The ravens have been sent. 'Tis not your burden to bear."

Certainly not, after his last encounter with his cousin that was clear. Rhaegar agreed in so far; he hadn't a duty to Aegon the man. Aegon his kin, however, had yet to release him from his obligations. He gave no decipherable answer to his companion. Thus, it surprised him little when Arthur produced even more words. "This is a bloody horrible situation. We might refrain from making it worse."

"If you fear an adverse response so much, you may make for King's Landing on your own." After all, he had a dragon, a considerable advantage over the horse-riding entourage insisting upon joining him.

"You are being deliberately obtuse," his friend accused, finally pulling back his hand, only to cross his arms over his chest. "Is it not enough that Duncan takes every opportunity to belittle you? Must you give him further cause? For make no mistake; he will see your presence at his brother's bedside as cause enough."

His father's namesake, Duncan the Younger wielded considerable power at court. Since his elder brother's inadequacies became well known throughout the kingdoms, he had attempted and succeeded to fill in the empty spot Aegon had left, with the understanding that he was, effectively, his father's heir. That was to say, Aegon would most probably never wed, never have sons of his own; he would never even live beyond the first flush of youth, if his current state was any indication. Naturally, Duncan the son had forged himself a path to what would soon be his official position.

Rhaegar did not resent that. He hadn't a right to. Having been born to the grandson of the King's second son, there was scant option for him other than to accept his position with dignity. There was always the option of railing at fate, rebelling at its callous treatment and visiting grief upon those close to him; and he had considered his distaste for that particular path when he dared face the serpents living within him at length.

He did, however, begrudge Duncan the ease of his loathing. The whole situation would be much easier to bear if he were convinced his mere existence was a reasonable motive to shoulder the blame for Aegon's current situation. Unfortunately, Rhaegar did not see quite what Duncan meant when he stared with baleful eyes at him.

"You worry too much," he finally replied, shaking his head lightly. It was an unfortunate situation, that one could not show interest in one's kin without the threat of suspicion looming ahead. But it was, and he could do little but accept it and move on.

"And you never do enough worrying." Arthur sat upon the bench, leaning his head back against the wall. Despite his nagging, he would stay; or so indicated his actions.

The door to his cousin's chamber creaked open and the maester's head poked out. "The fever broke." Relief wrapped itself around Rhaegar, in spite of knowing the miracle would be short-lived. "Will Your Grace be staying, after all?"

"It would be best, I daresay."

"In that case, the rooms have been readied, Your Grace."

"I should like to see my cousin."

 

 

 

The Queen was not at all what Lyanna would have expected. For some odd reason, despite her Blackwood origins, her mind had forever associated her with Prince Aegon. But nay; her look called to mind more a starless sky than an autumnal field. The Crown Prince's wife was the one who had given Aegon his features. Lyanna straightened herself, not entirely ignorant of the speculative gaze the two levelled upon her.

"You needn't be so formal," Queen Betha assured. "My good-daughter and I are not in the habit of resenting a bit of disarray."

Jenny of Oldstones nodded her agreement. She had caused quite the stir when she'd wedded the Crown Prince. One would expect her to be a great beauty, at the very least, or possess an aura. Sorely disappointed, Lyanna had to make do with an unremarkably plain woman, noteworthy for a lack of any and all extraordinary traits. Certainly, her hair held a fair amount of reddish strand amid its otherwise earthy tones; but that was all. No matter; it was her fault for having expected to be entertained during her stint at court. She ought to have known that since no one made mention of Lady Jenny, as she was at times mockingly called, being in possession of striking looks, she was likely not.

"How was your journey?" the younger woman asked, indicating that Lyanna ought to take her seat. "The roads, as I've hear it, are in poor state."

Rain, sleet and healthy frost, and all of them in close succession. No wonder the roads were in poor shape. "I try not to complain; my lord father saw that I was as comfortable as I could possibly be."

"Northerners are nothing if not thorough," the Queen allowed, her expression losing some of its cheeriness. "I imagine 'twas why the response to my letter was delayed. Your father must have thought long upon the matter."

 

 

 

Sawolfyr stretched wide wings as though in preparation for flight. Rhaegar simply rubbed at the side of her neck, praising her softly enough that no one might hear. He dismounted, glancing about in search of his mother. What he did see, though, was his grandmother. Which did not surprised him as much as it should have. The moon was high upon the sky, after all.

"I thought you were never going to arrive."


End file.
